


Tongue-Tied

by lettersfromnowhere



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Confessions, F/M, Post-Agni Kai, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, Zutara Week, Zutara Week 2020, day 5: hesitancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25614466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersfromnowhere/pseuds/lettersfromnowhere
Summary: Unfortunately, words aren't exactly Fire Lord Zuko's greatest strength; that makes things a touch more difficult than necessary when he realizes that he's got something to say to the girl who saved his life.(Awkward, repeatedly-thwarted love confession fic for Zutara Week Day 5: Hesitancy.)
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 217





	Tongue-Tied

**Author's Note:**

> I SWEAR THE TITLE IS NOT A REFERENCE TO MY DEAR FRIEND @tonguetide. 
> 
> I had a lot of fun with this one, even though I wrote it so long ago (two weeks feels like an eternity ago) that I can't remember exactly what it is. Whoops. We really do be wilding.

**_i. Visitor_ **

“Thank you for your diligence, Master Katara.”

Katara looks up, startled. She didn’t realize anyone was hear – wonders if that’s something she should be worried about, the way she forgets the wider world exists when she’s healing him. But she relaxes when she sees Iroh in the doorway to his nephew’s chambers, deciding that it’s perfectly fine to focus.

“It’s the least I could possibly do,” she says, hoping Iroh can’t hear the weariness in her voice. She returns to her work, moving the glowing water over the charred star punctuating the feverish, milky-pale skin of Zuko’s abdomen-

_Don’t think about it,_ she constantly has to tell herself as she works, but it’s a little bit hard to focus with the memory of the things he’s been saying while delirious with fever bouncing around in her brain.

“Healing him, perhaps. But this goes beyond that.” Iroh watches her work, though she’s not facing him and doesn’t see. “You’ve not left my nephew since you arrived here. No one would’ve asked that of you.”

Her face sets in determination, even though she’s not looking at him and knows he can’t see it. “I’m where I need to be,” she says.

(She is – she really is. But she is still on the brink of exhaustion, and when Iroh leaves she knows she will collapse, her cheek pressed to the place where his heartbeat is strongest because if anything changes she _knows_ she will feel it.)

“Then you are a wonderful friend, Katara,” he says with a knowing smile and Katara can’t help but wonder what _that_ is supposed to mean.  
  
“I hope I am,” she says nonchalantly, as if her brain hasn’t been in knots for hours. “He nearly died because of me. If I wasn’t-”

  
“You mean the world to Zuko. That much is obvious.”

“Mm,” she mutters, lost in thought and focus at the same time. _And he means the world to me,_ she’d add if she had the courage.

“Well, I’ll leave you two,” Iroh says, and Katara doesn’t miss the softness in his tone nor the sadness that undergirds it. “If you need anything, say the word and I’ll send someone to get it for you.”

She nods but doesn’t move, biting her lip as she concentrates on a spot where the damage is especially deep.

  
Later, Katara will probably remember that exchange, wonder what exactly Uncle Iroh was implying, feel a little warm because it might just be a good sign. But for now there is only Zuko and the glowing water beneath her hands, and she has a job to do.

He did not fail her, and she will not fail him.

“Hang in there,” she mutters as soon as Iroh’s out of earshot. “Can you do that for me?”

She likes to think the way he inhales a little more deeply after that is a _yes,_ and a whole lot more words she wants to say threaten to slip out. But they don’t.

**_II. slumber_ **

****

When Zuko awakens on the fourth morning after the Agni Kai, there is a weight on his abdomen that wasn’t there before, and he starts to sit up to see what it is (which lasts only as long as his ability to forget that he’s in pain does) before falling back against the pillows with a grimace.

The weight is still there, though, and he guesses it’s an obscene hour of the morning because the curtains are drawn, a candle burns at his bedside, and no one’s here but-

_Oh._

Heat blooms in his stomach. Katara’s collapsed in a chair next to the bed, her face resting against his stomach and one of her arms flung across his shoulders. Smiling to himself – because _nothing,_ he thinks, could be a greater reward for living than this – he gingerly moves her arm, afraid to wake her. She doesn’t stir, though; she must be exhausted. A little more awake now, he moves his own arm – _sore,_ he didn’t know it was possible to be this sore in every inch of his body – and, with clumsy, hesitant hands, begins to stroke her hair, fanned out across his chest.

It’s a kind of intimate he doubts he’d have the courage to be if she weren’t passed out in his lap. But when she stirs, startles at the feeling of fingers in her hair and looks up to see him smiling down at her – a little tentative, a little _is this okay?,_ completely content – and her returning smile is nothing short of radiant.

“Zuko,” she breathes, throwing her arms around his neck. It doesn’t take long for her to tear up. “You woke up.” 

“Uh.” He _knows_ this is the moment when he’s supposed to say something beautifully poetic. He _knows_ that, really does. But all he can get out, his heart catching in his throat, is “was I not supposed to?”

“You were running a fever,” she says tearily, squeezing his shoulders a little tighter. “We think the wound was infected.”

“Worth it,” he rasps, and _then_ he realizes that he’s supposed to be in pain and clutches at his abdomen and immediately, Katara flies from his arms and is unsheathing enough water to work on him as he assumes she’s been doing for the last several days. (They’re hazy, he realizes – no wonder.)

The thought of Katara sleeping at his side for four nights makes him want to blurt out things he knows he shouldn’t, but reason wins, and he says nothing.

**_iii. Reprimands_ **

“What did I _tell_ you about trying to walk?” Katara snaps, and Zuko sinks back against the pillows in resignation. _Good._ He _should_ feel remorse for his blatant disregard for his own safety. “Zuko, you have to rest!”

“I felt fine.” He glares at her. “You don’t have to parent me, Katara. I’m _fine.”_

“Oh, really?” Katara’s answering glare is nothing short of dangerous. “Hm. Let’s run through a list of reasons that is _complete_ nonsense. So first off, you get hit by lightning and nearly die. And _then_ that lightning wound gets infected and you’re in and out of consciousness for four days with a fever – and don’t even get me _started_ on the stuff you said while you were under. You were _delirious-”_

“Wait, I did?” Zuko looks genuinely fearful for the first time and Katara’s almost satisfied, but she knows it’s probably not her wrath that he’s afraid of. “What kind of stuff was I saying?”

“Delirious gibberish.” Katara’s not interested in rehashing one thing in particular. “Calling out people’s names, that kind of thing. Once I distinctly heard you say ‘hot leaf juice’ and I didn’t even _want_ to know.” _I think he’d die on the spot if he knew some of the stuff he said,_ Katara decides, and withholds some of the more direct statements he’d made.

He looks relieved. “Oh. Okay.”

“Point being, you are in _no condition_ to be getting out of bed.”

“Fine,” he huffs, pulling the red comforter back up over his legs. “I’m dying of boredom.”

“Don’t joke about dying, Zuko.”

His face softens. “Right. Sorry.”

They’re silent for a moment, and then Katara finally looks up from the floor to find that he’s watching her. His eyes are soft, his expression relaxed, and she swears she can hear his breath catch in his throat when she turns to leave.

  
“Stay?” he asks.

And part of her wants to cry with joy, because that sounds an awful lot like evidence that he wasn’t entirely delirious when he said those words to her, but the other part of her is _terrified._ Acting together, though, both parts compel her to nod, drive her legs to move and sit beside him in the chair she’s set up at his bedside.

“No, _here.”_ Zuko pats the comforter, looking at her questioningly. “Can you?”

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Of course,” she murmurs, crossing to the other side of the bed to seat herself against the pillows on the other side of a bed far too big for one. Zuko leans towards her, resting against her shoulder, and Katara thinks she might melt. His arms wrap around her waist and soon he’s nodding off, and now that he’s made his intentions a shade clearer, she feels a little more courageous than perhaps she should.

  
“Remember when I told you that you didn’t say anything weird when you were sick?” she says softly, leaning her chin against the top of his head. When he doesn’t stir, she continues. “Well…I kinda lied.”

She’s hesitant to continue, but he really does seem to be out cold – _is this really all it takes to get Zuko to sleep?_ She wonders, and decides she’ll do it every time she needs to if that’s what it takes – and she needs to get this off her chest.

“You said something I don’t want to read too much into but did anyway.” She inhales shakily. “’Don’t do it, I love her.’ What did you mean by that?”

No response. She presses her cheek to the crown of his head, relishing the feeling of his soft hair against her face. “I want to believe you meant me.”

**_iv. rice_ **

****

“Katara, this is humiliating.”

  
Zuko’s arms are crossed, his posture challenging, but Katara doesn’t back down. She’s perched at the edge of his bed near his knees, holding a bowl of rice and a spoon because it seems to be best to stick to bland foods for now. And she’s smirking a little bit, enjoying this moment of utter mortification more than she should.

“Hm. That’ll teach you to take care of yourself,” she says sweetly, lifting a scoop of rice from the bowl and holding it out to him. “Now take it or I’ll _make_ you.”

“I _said_ I’m not hungry.” It’s the truth. He doesn’t want to eat, and he’s not going to make this easy for her.

“Fine, then.” She pushes the spoon closer to his face. “We’re doing this the embarrassing way, then.”

“Katara, I am the _Fire Lord.”_

“Yeah, and I’m the chump who almost got you killed, so I’m _not_ letting you starve.” She gestures with the spoon for effect. “Now take this or I’m going to force-feed you.”

Zuko wonders if there’s a single other person in all four nations who could get away with force-feeing the sovereign of the Fire Nation, and he realizes there probably isn’t, though Iroh comes close. _What does that say about how I feel about Katara?_ He wonders.

(That, too, is an easy answer, though he’s not about to admit it even now with her face inches from his.)

So he opens his mouth, but closes his eyes, because he’s not sure if he can take the sight of her triumphant smirk right now.

_This girl has entirely too much power over me,_ he thinks, and he wants to groan. But he doesn’t, and Katara’s not going to stop until he’s eaten every grain of rice in the bowl, so he puts his head down, takes the bowl from Katara before she has the chance to properly humiliate him, and finishes.

“Happy now?” he asks grumpily when the bowl’s empty.

“Mm-hm.” She leans forwards and kisses his forehead for his trouble. “Bet you won’t make me do _that_ again.”

_Oh, yeah. Entirely too much power._

**_v. advice_ **

“Nephew, are you sure you’re all right?” Uncle Iroh looks Zuko up and down.

“Fine, uncle.” His face is burning and he knows he can barely string together a coherent sentence, but he _has_ to get this over with. “Just-”

  
“Troubled, I can tell,” Uncle says, “and not in an entirely unwelcome way. Is this about Master Katara?”

Zuko’s never wished he was an Earthbender before, but right now, he sees a great deal of merit in the idea of being able to bend himself into one of the stone walls of the palace and never emerge.

Uncle notices his horrified expression and chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. “Don’t worry, Zuko, I’m not going to make you say it.”

(He’s never loved his uncle more.)

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits.

“Have you told her how you felt?”

“Of course I haven’t!” Zuko snaps. “Would I be here if I had?”

“Have you _thought_ about it?” evidently he’s lowered Uncle Iroh’s standards significantly.

“I have,” Zuko admits. “But then she’s _there,_ and I just…hesitate. And I can’t.”

“Well, I can’t help you there.” Uncle takes a sip of tea. “Only you can decide to tell her. But I _can_ say that I think it’ll go better than you expect if you ever do.”

Zuko doesn’t _want_ to look as relieved as he probably does, but he can’t help it. _Maybe he knows something._ “You do? Has she said something to you?” he nearly launches out of his chair as he leans forward across the table.

“No, but it’s obvious that she cares for you. Has she not been in the room every time you’ve woken up for the last week?”

“Yeah, but that’s because-”

“She loves you,” Uncle Iroh replies bluntly. “As much as you do her.”

“I don’t-!”

“Sure, Zuko.” Iroh _smirks,_ which is…terrifying. “If that is what makes you happy.”

**_vi. fruition_ **

****

In the end, there is absolutely nothing romantic about the way the mounting tension of hiding their painfully-obvious mutual pining comes to a head.

Zuko is nearly better after two weeks, but Katara decides to stop by for one last healing session before he’s declared ready to resume…whatever his new normal is going to be. It’s a practiced routine, one that comes easily to both of them by now, but something feels different about this time.

Later, Katara blames that for her slip-up.

“Remember when you were delirious?” she asks before she can think better of it, watching his abdomen and not his face.

“You know I don’t.”

“Okay, well, remember that it _happened?”_ she knows he does, so she doesn’t wait for Zuko to answer. “You said something while you were out of it.”

“You told me that,” Zuko replies, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Yeah, but…” she sucks in a breath. _It’s about time you get this over with,_ she decides. “I didn’t tell you about this one.”

“Oh?”

“You were dreaming, I think. And you said something.”

“Katara, get to the point?”

“’Don’t do it, I love her.’” Katara’s face is burning. “You said that. Twice.”

“Oh.” Zuko’s at a loss for words, it seems. “I did?”

“Yeah.” Katara wants to fall through the floor for even having said it, because there’s _no_ evidence that he was talking about her – _none –_ and he’s _definitely_ going to wonder why she’d hide that from him, and soon enough he’s going to guess at her feelings and that’s the last thing she wants. “What was that about?”

“I don’t remember,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”

Her heart falls. “Right,” she replies, and her voice is tight. “Probably meant nothing.”

They don’t say anything. Katara continues to check him over for damage she can repair, ignoring the few tears that slip their way into the water she’s massaging against his chest. _Stupid,_ she reprimands herself. _Of course he wasn’t talking about you._

“Katara, are you crying?”

Heat blooms in her cheeks when he speaks, but this time it’s the heat of shame, not anticipation. “No,” she says softly. “I’m okay.”

“You’re crying, aren’t you?” Zuko reaches out to cup her cheek, raising her face so she meets his eyes. The concern in his voice and eyes and gestures, the proximity, the tenderness – it’s just too much, too much because he _doesn’t love her_ but he still loved her enough to take lightning for her, to take her chin in his hand and hold it as if he’s got the entire universe in his palm. It’s too much because she had _no_ idea how much she’d been banking on the belief that his delirious words had referred to her all this time when, in the end, they weren’t.

Too much because she doesn’t know how not to love _him._

“It’s okay, Zuko,” she says shakily, her tears falling faster now as her chin trembles against his palm.

  
“No, Katara, you’re not.” He lets go and pulls her into his lap, folding her up in his arms. “Did I say something?”

“No,” she lies. “No, it’s my fault.”

“What is?”

“Reading too far into things,” she says vaguely, relishing the touch even as it burns her. “I’m sorry. I-”

“Into what?” he runs his palm up and down the length of her back.

“Nothing,” she insists. “Zuko, really.”

“Wait.” He stiffens. “Is this…about what I said when I was sick?”

  
Katara sniffles – can’t help it – and she knows she’s given herself away. “I thought you meant _me,”_ she says, her heart pole-vaulting. She can’t believe she’s admitting it, but he would’ve figured it out anyway. “But you didn’t mean _anything,_ I guess.”

“Did you… _want_ me to mean that?” Zuko asks, hesitant and terrified and hopeful all at once. “That…I loved you?”

She nods against his chest, her shoulders shaking as everything – the Agni Kai, the subsequent uncertainty of his fever, all the days they’ve spent together and the moments they’ve shared, the fear of losing him and the fear of never having him the way she wants to, _all of it –_ rushes onwards, overtaking her. “I’m sorry,” she sobs, starting to pull away because she just can’t take it right now, this tenderness that isn’t the way she wants it. “I’m so sorry-”

In a split second, he gently takes her wrist and pulls her back in, and before she can think, his lips are on hers.

  
It only lasts a few seconds, more of a hesitant press of lips than a real kiss, but when he pulls back, his free hand still cupping her cheek, Katara’s eyes are huge. She’s too shocked to move and just…stares at him.

And _then_ it sinks in, and she can’t _not_ smile.

  
“Wait, you…”

“I don’t remember saying that specific thing,” he says, running his thumb along her jawline, “but I’ve _thought_ it.”

“You-”

“Love you,” he finishes. “Yeah. I do.”

And then she’s crying all over again and kissing him frantically, even though she knows her lips probably taste like tears (it’s messy and strange and totally unideal but _perfect),_ and he tightens his arms around her waist and she can’t take it anymore.

  
“I love you,” she says, pulling away and resting her forehead against his. “I love you so much.”

He seems to melt in her arms, the tension in his shoulders falling away. “I’ve been trying to make myself tell you for weeks,” he admits. “I just didn’t think I’d have the guts to do it.”

“Good thing your feverish self did the heavy lifting for you.” Katara leans in for another kiss. “Can we at least agree that you were _probably_ talking about me?”

“I hope I was.”

“Good enough.” Her eyes crinkle as she smiles and he kisses the tip of her nose.

As she leans in to kiss Zuko, Katara is dimly aware that, from a purely logistical standpoint, this is going to be a nightmare. From a purely political standpoint – well, it’ll be worse. They’re needed in entirely different places, and their respective people won’t be thrilled to hear about this.

But one couldn’t _pay_ her to care about that right now.


End file.
